The grip on my arm loosens just enough for hope to slam into me so hard it hurts.
Dave’s head snaps toward the front of the house. His face drains, then tightens the same way it did in the kitchen when control slipped.
“Move,” he barks. “Move her.”
They drag.
I fight.
My shoes skid across the floor. I twist and kick and claw at the man’s wrist, not because I think I’ll win, but because I need to feel like I tried.
Then the hallway fills with men.
Not guards.
Not Dave’s.
Knox is there like the storm finally found a door.
Black tee. Jeans. Boots. Violence held just beneath the surface. His gaze locks on me, and I feel it hit my skin like heat.
Behind him, Gray steps in with the kind of calm that makes everyone else look sloppy. Another man flanks them, wide-shouldered and focused, moving like this is familiar territory and he doesn’t plan to lose.
The house shifts around their presence. Like it knows who owns the air now.
My breath catches. My eyes burn.
Knox doesn’t look at anyone else first.
He looks at the hands on me.
His voice is low and terrifyingly quiet. “Let her go.”
The guard releases me like he values his pulse.
“We don’t want trouble,” he mutters.
Knox’s gaze doesn’t flicker. “You’ve already got it.”
Dave steps into view behind them. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Knox says. “I’m taking her home.”
Home.
The word hits me like a bruise and a blessing all at once.
Gray’s voice cuts in, calm and final. “Dave Michaelson. It’s over. Step outside. Surrender. Now.”
“I’ll never do that.”
He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else.
Men move in from both sides, fast and efficient. Dave struggles once before they pin him, hands forced behind his back. The sound he makes isn’t anger.
It’s fear.
Knox’s eyes find mine again, and the world narrows to that single line between us.
